Then There Were Violins
by Penn Flinn
Summary: Three years after the Fall, John is woken from a nightmare by the sound of Sherlock's violin. Reunion story with a twist. Spoilers for Reichenbach Fall, no slash.


**Hello! This is my first foray into the Sherlock world-I'm totally hooked now, so it's only natural that a fanfiction would come out of it. I am absolutely in love with John Watson/Martin Freeman, and I'm not afraid to admit that I cried many many tears at the end of Reichenbach. I wanted to capture the essence of his loneliness after the Fall (and loneliness in general), and also the bittersweet nature that I associate Sherlock's violin with.**

**I'm excited for this fic! Enjoy!**

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John Watson was terrified.

Absolutely, horrifically, terrified.

He'd never felt so scared in his life, in fact, or so it seemed. Every muscle in his body contracted into tense knots, his face dripped with sweat, his heart pounded a painful tattoo in his chest, threatening to break through his ribs. He wanted to cry out; maybe he was. The darkness closed in, the terror and the pain, and he knew nothing could stop him from descending into what he was sure would be the relief of death.

And then there were violins.

They started slowly at first, barely a sigh of music in the reigning chaos. Then the hum of melody grew louder, a single violin swelling, breaking through the horror. It transcended the blood and the fighting and the fear and the despair. The clear tune and pitch of the instrument burst around him, drawing him toward some light, breaking in a loud crest of harmony.

John awoke with a start.

"Sherlock" was the first thing he muttered as he sat up. He knew that violin.

He was still damp with sweat and his heart was, if possible, pounding even harder, but he marched across the floor and out of the room without even changing from his bedclothes. In a sort of drunken stupor-even though he was wide awake by this point, startled from his dream by that heavenly noise-he made his way to the living room area of the flat.

He knew it couldn't be true. He knew it couldn't _possibly_ be true, but the sound of that violin was still ringing in his ears. He hardly dared to breathe as he stepped around the corner.

"Sherlock," he said in one breath, all strength failing him.

Three years after the fall, that dreadful fall that sucked the life from John, there was Sherlock. Standing in the flat. Completely alive. Violin halfway to his chin.

"John," Sherlock said at once, concern etched on his features as he took in the sight of the doctor. "Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost. Please, sit down."

"You," John said, panting. He ignored Sherlock's words for a moment, though he felt the color drain from his face, "were dead."

"Was I?" said Sherlock with a note of disinterest. "Well, isn't that a puzzle. It seems if I were dead, I wouldn't be standing here now in our flat." The cutting note of sarcasm was heavy in his voice. "Please, John, sit down before you fall over."

Finally John complied, drawing in a forgotten breath and struggling to his chair. The limp in his leg was so bad now that he grasped the arm for support as he walked forward. This detail clearly wasn't lost on Sherlock, for as John sat with a grunt of pain, the detective motioned with his bow.

"Your nightmares are back, then?"

"Obviously," John said, looking at the floor. He couldn't quite bring himself to meet Sherlock's gaze. "It doesn't take a detective to figure that one out."

The violin lowered. "Afghanistan still?"

"Yes." John hesitated. "And...well, you."

Curiosity piqued in what John could see of Sherlock's body language. "Oh?" A pause, an inquisitive silence. "Why?"

"Because you bloody jumped off a building, that's why!" John said, whipping his head up and meeting Sherlock's startled eyes. "You didn't think I'd have nightmares about that? You think you could just go jump off a building, convince everyone you're dead, disappear from the face of the planet for _three whole years..._ You didn't think any _self-respecting_ person would have nightmares about someone committing suicide? Especially their best..." John swallowed, turning his eyes downward again, shaking his head. He continued quietly, "Jeez, Sherlock. Why did I ever get mixed up with you in the first place?"

Sherlock now placed the violin and the bow on the floor and moved into the chair opposite John. John eyed the violin before turning his gaze ashamedly back to its owner.

"I'm so sorry, John," Sherlock said, a tremor in his usually steady voice. "I only did what I thought needed to be done. You were in danger. All of you."

"I don't care," John said shortly, and he was surprised at how his voice shook. "You don't just leave a friend like that. Not like that."

Sherlock pressed his eyes shut as he usually did when concentrating on an important case. But this time, the case was John. _The case of the broken doctor_, John thought bitterly.

"How can I make this right for you, if my being back here isn't enough?" Sherlock said, voice a cracked whisper. "How can I apologize for leaving? I thought the violin would help the nightmares, but-"

"Don't do it again," John cut in firmly. "Don't you ever do anything like that again. Or I will personally hunt you down and kill you myself."

Sherlock chuckled, and the sound was welcome to John after three years. "Promise."

John leaned back in his chair, his heart rate already starting to steady. He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "That was a beautiful song you were playing," he said after a few moments of silence. He closed his eyes. Being woken in the middle of the night by the reappearance of an old friend had surprisingly done nothing to relieve the constant exhaustion that plagued him.

"I was only in the middle when I was so rudely interrupted," Sherlock said teasingly. "Would you like me to finish it?"

"Mhm," John muttered vaguely. Sleep was already taking him as the violin began its slow dance through his mind.

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"John, dear?"

John was roused by the voice of his landlady, blinking into reality more slowly this time. Mrs. Hudson was standing at the door of the flat, peering in with those sad eyes she'd adopted around the doctor since the Fall. John sat up straighter, leg twinging even with this movement, and realized that he was still in his chair. He must have fallen asleep when...

"Sherlock!" he barked, the events of the night coming back to him. He stood and swayed a bit in his drowsiness, but his leg supported him with ease.

A tired look came into Mrs. Hudson's eyes, and she stepped in to the flat. "What's that?"

"Sherlock," John repeated. "He was here, Mrs. Hudson! Right here! He was back from the dead somehow...I mean, he never really died. Faked it. He came back and we talked and he was playing his violin, just like the old days. Remember, Mrs. Hudson?"

The sympathy creased the landlady's face as she moved forward. "John, dear," she said hesitantly. "Sherlock's..."

"You must have heard him!" John said frantically, willing her to believe. "You used to go on and on about that violin. You must have heard him come in or _something_!"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head slowly, mournfully. "John..."

"He was here!" John said, anger now coloring his voice. "Sherlock's alive! He..."

He followed Mrs. Hudson's gaze to the floor, and what he saw there pierced him, numbed him, crushed him. His leg gave out and he fell back into his chair, the energy even to utter a cry of pain lost to him.

The violin was broken in pieces on the floor. It had been lying there, shattered, for three years.

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**As always, reviews make my day just a bit brighter! I am open to all suggestions/comments/reactions! Thanks for reading!**

**-Penn**


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